


all along there was some invisible string tying you to me

by switmikan74



Series: BokuAka Week 2020 [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Akaashi loves Bokuto, BokuAka Week, Bokuto loves akaashi, Childhood Friends, Confessions, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Self-Indulgent, Somewhat an exploration of perspective on being gay, soft romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:54:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25610902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/switmikan74/pseuds/switmikan74
Summary: Their story starts with a question.A surging curiosity beyond the reins of adult minds and more so into the realm of childlike fascination and open acceptance, untainted by society’s shaping. It was a sprouting query that aged like fine wine, supposedly.Still, this is how they first met.“Why are you so pretty?”
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Series: BokuAka Week 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1859227
Comments: 42
Kudos: 291
Collections: BokuAka Fics, Bokuaka Week 2020





	all along there was some invisible string tying you to me

**Author's Note:**

> Taylor Swift released her folklore album and I am fueled. 
> 
> Posted an hour earlier because I can't keep my eyes open anymore to wait. Hahahaha

* * *

Their story starts with a question.

A surging curiosity beyond the reins of adult minds and more so into the realm of childlike fascination and open acceptance, untainted by society’s shaping. It was a sprouting query that aged like fine wine, _supposedly_.

Still, this is how they first met.

“Why are you so pretty?”

For a child like Akaashi Keiji, it was a flustering moment. He was not used to bright shining individuals without qualms for personal space and all for head-reeling personality. He was a soft-spoken, sheltered lad. The white-haired child wasn’t; because he _is_ the equivalent of a canvas of stars in a countryside night sky, comfortably shining despite the quietness the world brings every after sunset.

“I…” It was okay for him to stutter, he thinks. The kid is wild and brazen, and his tongue is all twisted by the warmth settling in his belly. He doesn’t know what to say so he says that instead.

“Maybe a ‘thank you’?” The kid smiles before swiveling and pointing to a woman with golden-colored eyes, “My Ma says that when I tell her she’s pretty.”

He tilts his head and scrunches his brows. There are things he wanted to say; like it’s the first time he was called pretty and he doesn’t know if boys should be pretty; like _what’s your name_ with a raise eyebrow and pretend he is older and mature; like should he call him pretty too _but_ the kid is more cool handsome than soft pretty and his golden eyes are so beautiful and he thinks— _he thinks it’s unfair to be so ethereal_.

He shakes his head and nods to himself, he knows that he had used ethereal the right way.

“Hey, are you okay?”

He blinks. _Ah, he’s still here._ Akaashi steps back to distance himself from the toothy smile shoves centimeters away from his face.

“Thank you.” He finally says. Peels of laughter spill from toothy grin and when he crinkles his lips to a frown, the white-haired kid pats his back in a forceful manner.

“You’re an odd one, you know. Pretty but odd.” The kid pauses before laughing some more, “Ha! Pretty odd!”

Akaashi never feared words or how they were used. He has always been fascinated with language. It’s quite beautiful to string together letters and make a meaning out of them. He especially likes playing the words together.

So, when this bright kid with a head-reeling personality produces signals from his mouth that his ears intercepted, he can’t help but laugh as well. If his mother finds it odd to see him laughing with a stranger on the first day of his fifth grade, he’ll tell her children has possibly the most complex yet simple set of humor—so rudimentary at times that the whole complicated adult minds sometimes failed to comprehend.

He is, however the way he carries himself, a child after all.

.

.

.

His name is Bokuto Koutarou, a sixth grader with a penchant for loudness.

He knows this by chance. It was really a coincidence, a funny story to tell. Akaashi’s section has been doing stretches for their outdoor activity when the big ball of energy came rushing down from the second floor and everyone was yelling, especially Bokuto’s adviser.

“BOKUTO KOUTAROU, YOU FOOL!”

The angry broadcast of his name has all the pupils laughing. Akaashi was the only one probably concerned about the survival rate of Bokuto from the jump. But he is fine falling down, laughing with the bruises on his hands and the shaky way his knees chatter from the impact.

Bokuto runs, albeit much slower than the first time he had seen him dash away. When he passes by them, he throws a toothy grin and says, “Did you see me? I’m awesome, right?”

Even though the rest of the class cheers him on, Akaashi is pretty sure the question was meant for him alone. He smiles, despite the urge to scold him, and nods before looking away.

When Ms. Akira stomps her way to them after Bokuto is long gone, Akaashi points the other way and tells her, “He’s probably running to the library to hide.”

Lies. That’s where the funny part comes because Akaashi has always been a stickler to rules and you know, laughingly enough, he breaks it the way Bokuto probably broke his bones from the landing. Unassumingly unapologetic.

.

.

.

They became officially best friends three weeks after the incident.

Apparently, somehow, Bokuto finds out the way he subtly saved him from ‘demon Ms. Akira’ which he later regrets because Bokuto confesses he hates Mathematics—and that’s the only reason why he jumps out of the window.

“Who would want to solve word problem, anyway?” It was innocuous enough, naïve really. Bokuto blinks at him like he was telling him the answer to the mystery of the world. “Math sucks.”

“Maybe, you just suck at it.” He rebuts and covers his ears just in time for the loud whine. Bokuto is an open book, it wasn’t hard learning all his quirks in a short span of time. Like Bokuto’s clumsy way of handling rebuttals, always opting to childishly weasel his way out than facing them head on. Like this, especially _this_.

“You’re a meanie, Akaashi!” Bokuto says with a pout. Akaashi wonders how a simple downturn or upturn of the mouth could be deceivingly loud.

 _Cute_ , his mind thinks before he could stop it. For a moment, he is confused. Do boys his age think boys like Bokuto cute? Or is he, as many has told him, odd?

He shrugs.

“That doesn’t change the fact that you can’t multiply right.”

The gasp was dramatic and so is the way he falls to his knees, a hand placed solemnly upon his chest.

“Ma says that if your heart hurts, it’s betrayal.” Bokuto speaks with a tone one would use in funerals, “Betrayal!”

“Do you even know what it means?” Akaashi rolls his eyes and clutches the strap of his bag. His mother is late picking him up.

“I know that you’re _betrayal_ me!”

“No! That’s not how—I…” Akaashi sighs, “Can you bring out your notebook for Math? I can help you multiply.”

Bokuto momentarily forgets his tirade. He really wants to finish his multiplication homework, Ms. Akira told him that he won’t be able to play volleyball if he fails to submit on time.

Akaashi is a very smart child. He can multiply 4-digit numbers to 7-digit numbers without a sweat. Bokuto has looked at him with wide eyes, a gleam of awe covering his still somewhat confused self. But Akaashi explained it so well that by the time they get to the seventh question, he was able to actually do it without trying to goad the younger one anymore into completing his homework.

“Wow, Akaashi, I didn’t know my best friend could be this smart.”

The declaration was fairly surprising, considering they barely interacted. But Bokuto has always been full of surprises and Akaashi is just too tired to retaliate and deny their ‘friendship status’.

So, when his mother asks him who Bokuto is, he tells her that Bokuto is his best friend.

“What?” His mother almost reverses at the confession. He shrugs and looks out the window of the car, the fading silhouette of Bokuto’s waving form getting farther and farther.

“He’s my best friend.”

He smiles. It doesn’t sound weird repeating it.

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Bokuto loves many, many things. But his love for things are almost always fleeting. He gets all passionate and then gets bored for all five seconds. Yet volleyball has held his interest for longer than most. And so does Akaashi.

Hence, when Mr. Furihata gave the class some homework regarding love, he answered in three defining sentences: _Love is volleyball and Akaashi. I will always give 120% of myself to both. And, if it isn’t enough, then 200%._

The first time Mr. Furihata had read it, he doesn’t know what to say. He expects Bokuto to actually write something silly, something funny. The other boys had written _love is like petting cats_ or _like drinking chocolate and making you warm_. Something childish. Yet, Bokuto wrote an honest confession and when he was asked what he meant by it, he smiled, “I love volleyball and Akaashi!”

Perhaps, he’s overthinking it. They’re merely kids. Who would know love at such a young age?

A year later, when he gives the same assignment but to Akaashi’s class, he wonders if they really know what they were saying about love, if somehow he knew of their feelings before they do, if he could have helped them then.

.

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_Love is Bokuto-san. Shining and bright and all the things that make you feel alive._

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Middle school is a whirlwind of self-discovery.

There wasn’t much of a preamble down the hill of identity crisis. It happens to every single individual one way or another. A passage to adulthood, if you may. After all, they couldn’t remain as kids forever—even if they wanted to, safe and protected, always given the leeway out of consideration for their age, underestimated and coddled.

It starts with a touch.

There shouldn’t be any different about it. Their whole affair has been littered with hugs and kissing cheeks and foreheads, just a general large amount of cuddles. Bokuto has been a touchy-feely kind of guy and Akaashi, while normally very averse with unnecessarily touching other people, has been very compliant under Bokuto’s soft affectionate actions. Quite a normal affair, really—if not, for the sudden conscious onslaught of thoughts that lingered where their skin has been pressed together for a second longer than it was before—getting longer than they were kids, persistent with touches until they burn and simmer with a scratching feeling of wanting more.

And isn’t it such a good thing that they both want and want?

It is, with mild confusion on Akaashi’s part, that they one day found one another on Bokuto’s bed, lips pressed tightly together, eyes wide open with swirling emotions that rescinded Akaashi’s initial perplexed demeanor, a result of his mind overdriving with their thinking to connect their previous simple arrangement of simply joking around to the very-much-not-planned-but-very-much-appreciated incident of Bokuto’s lips landing on his own. Something warm is definitely fluttering in their chest that makes their blood boil and their eyes close, simultaneously opening their mouth to explore.

Akaashi was the first to break away, panting and flushed.

He peers up and sees Bokuto’s melted gold eyes, sees the way his irises expand in a manner of telling on Bokuto, sees the little twitch in the corner of his lips, like he has to bit them before he could surrender to instinct.

“Is it weird?” Quiet, the question barely a whisper. Akaashi shakes his head and presses up, capturing Bokuto’s lips for a second and then waning back. He tilts his head, “Is that weird?”

Bokuto disagrees with a noise. His fingers wrap around Akaashi’s cheeks like soft blanket of peace. He leans in to invade Akaashi’s personal space and Akaashi lets him as he had done for many years now.

“Do you like it?”

Without much contemplation, Akaashi says, “Yes. I do. Very much.” And under the guise of curiosity, in hiding, jealousy flares, so Akaashi adds, “Where did you learn it?”

“From movies.” Bokuto has always been honest, almost to a fault. It was always charming to see him spill things without hesitation. “Do you remember Mr. Furihata?”

“Our English teacher in elementary?”

“Yes.” Bokuto stares at him, searching, before he confesses, “I saw him once, at the back of our school. With Mr. Narumi. And they were kissing. It stuck with me. I did not find it weird at all. They look happy, Akaashi. Maybe, it’s because of that.”

“Oh.” Akaashi is twelve and he doesn’t understand the whole complexity of the world. But he knows, to an extent, that kissing is done with each other by opposite gender. Or so he was told time and time again. By the ‘normal’ teachers. By the giggling teenage girls and rowdy boys their age. By the mainstream movies seamed to the society’s teaching.

“Happy.” Akaashi rolls his tongue with it. “I heard…” He gulps, “Mr. Furihata and Mr. Narumi no longer teach in our school. Was it because of that? Because they’re…”

Gay. He had thought about it once in awhile. The first time he does, it comes with much turmoil. He was ten and he sees Bokuto in the new light; he thinks it’s odd to notice features about his best friend that boys his age notice about girls; metaphors and similes exploding at the back of his mind and threatened to spill across the walls like wet paint ready to embolden his thoughts for the whole world to see when they’re not meant to be there at all.

“Is it wrong to be gay?”

Bokuto is thirteen and he is far from grasping the knowledge of the world, much less the simple concept of love defined by the norm. He thinks, for the first time, that it’s unfair. Sure, he doesn’t know that a lot of people across the planet think so too, but he feels specially burdened by it because—

“Are we gay? Because, you know, I like kissing you and you’re a boy. But!” Bokuto presses closer, “But I only think of kissing you. And! And! Listen, Akaashi, I don’t think it’s wrong. If we like kissing each other. I just…”

Helplessly, he deflates, unsure with how to articulate his bigger than life feelings for Akaashi without scaring the younger one.

“I just…” He tries again, a hand holding Akaashi’s dainty one, “I just like being with you. Like, for example, we talked about marriage in Literature today. And… and I think it would be great if I could… with you. But they say, it’s only for a woman and a man. Why though?”

“Because it’s normal?” Akaashi answered, his tone unsure and miffed, like he is also specially offended by his own answer. Bokuto squawks, “What’s not normal for two guys, who love each other very much, to marry? I don’t understand, Akaashi. Is it really abnormal to be happy with a guy you love?”

“I…” Akaashi swallows the balloon forming in his throat. Somewhere amongst Bokuto’s spiel, he is sure there is a romantic confession, a proposal that should have been laid in the far future when they’re both mature enough to truly understand the concept of marriage and love—still, he catches it and he embraces it with all his reserved might. He closes his eyes, “I don’t know.”

Silence is very companionable between them, most of the time. Today, in Bokuto’s bedroom where queries were made and realizations were formed, the two stew in the confusion of it all.

Akaashi is twelve, tingles with the affection he has for his best friend, trembles at the pressure of their conversation. He is suddenly all too aware of the implications of their conversation, of their growing wants and needs—and all for each other.

Bokuto is thirteen, spills with reckless abandon of his devotion for his best friend, reaches for Akaashi’s hands and intertwine them with his—he is naïve, he admits, but he knows that there is inherently difficult about their discovery. It’s nothing wrong. No, of course not. He’ll never ever say that. He knows, at least, that love is a beautiful thing. So what if he is only thirteen and he thinks this is love? Whatever he has felt for his best friend since he is eleven, or even a year earlier than that, has been nothing but warm and light and gentle—just so beautiful to feel, especially when Akaashi is around.

So, this is love. It’s not wrong, no, not at all. Just difficult. Fairly so. But not impossible.

.

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It takes Akaashi three days before he presents Bokuto a comprehensive research about the history of marriage. And with a light heart, stars in their eyes, they find out that once upon a time ago, love transcends the trapping requirement of gender spread by false gossips and sheep-minded acceptance of foreign influences.

It’s nice to know that there is hope in history and progress.

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Funny how children could think of something intricate most treat like the gorilla in the room.

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 _That’s probably love._ Or you know, something quite close.

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One hundred and twenty-five kisses later, Bokuto, naïve that he is, kicks to gain momentum on the swing and asks, “So, are you my boyfriend?”

Akaashi blinks, opens his mouth to speak the reeling thoughts he has for Bokuto, almost sounding like scolding, before he chose to chuckle instead. Because, yes, this is just so Bokuto. He’s always so out of order, so not chronological, so _not_ normal (in a good way, of course).

“Is that a yes?” At least, Bokuto understands all his eccentricities as well. Akaashi nods, “Wasn’t it obvious?”

“I don’t know. You did not say anything. I want to know if I have your permission to call you my boyfriend.” Flushing color dusts both their cheeks. Bokuto averts his eyes away, shy all of a sudden. Akaashi coughs behind his hand and mumbles, “Of course you have it.”

“That’s great!” Bokuto jumps from his swing and lands on both his feet. Akaashi wonders if Bokuto’s kneecaps are still doing fine, he did jump from the second floor once. Bokuto swivels to face Akaashi and drops gently to one knee, “Because I can’t ask you to marry me if I’m not your boyfriend.”

“What?”

Bokuto rummages his pocket and procures a painstakingly made ring (a yellow rubber band with a tied blue bead), “Remember two months ago? I told you I would love to get married to you someday. And I heard you need a ring to finish the promise. So, Akaashi Keiji, someday I’ll take you out of Japan and go to, um,”

He pauses and looks at his palm and continues, “Ca—Ka? Kama… Kamanda.”

He fails reading the smudged letters but finishes his sentence with bravado. Akaashi rolls his eyes, “Let me see that.”

Ah. Akaashi smiles, “Yes. Let’s go to Canada, someday.”

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Thirteen-year-olds are the meanest people sometimes. They’re quite feral, hardened with the scrapes on their knees and popularity-pyramid scheme in their junior years. Because of their immature nature, they wear their heart on their sleeves; so, they easily present their emotions on their face before the filter in their brain could work.

Haru is the most popular thirteen years old in their school. He is, for a teenager’s standard, handsome with his wavy brown hair and cool blue eyes. For all the ‘influence’ he holds over people, he doesn’t make much impact for the good of society. Well, he is just a budding person. Still, power makes people somewhat arrogant and mean.

Children, still grappling with the knowledge that the world is bigger than the four corners of their school, are very bad when handling ‘power’. According to a theory about self-formation, there are people who just can’t seem to get past the Play Stage—or worse, the Preparatory Stage—in which little kids tend to think they’re the center of the world; in a sense, they don’t understand that their opinion is just a slight miniscule dust amongst many grains of educated thoughts. And it’s much worse when, combine with their self-centered perspective, they’re taught prejudices by adults who thought they’re well-meaning.

It’s a recipe in making a disastrous human being.

Haru is like that (for now, supposedly).

The park was a public space. This is a common knowledge. Therefore, anything that might happen within the space at a certain given time could be subjected by other curious third parties.

Haru is the third party for the private moment of Bokuto and Akaashi. That’s where the mean part starts. Because Haru does not know about a love so different from what he was taught. Because he does not try to understand that boys could hold warm feelings for each other and that some places in the world allow boys to get married to one another. Because Haru is only thirteen and he does not know how to react because they were never taught anything beyond the same old prejudices and disgusts perpetuated by the conservatives.

He throws a bucket of muddy water on both of them when he saw them on Monday. He told everyone about their ‘gayness’ and their appalling ridiculous delusion of marriage. And because Haru is the most popular thirteen years old, naïve kids who want to be liked and avoid suspicion began doing what he does. It’s a bad domino effect that was treated as child’s play.

Three weeks before _that_ happened, Bokuto pulls him to a corner and shouts, “What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s _wrong_ with you?” Haru rebuts, bored out of his mind. Bokuto crinkles his golden eyes into a glare, the redness of his eyes only making him look defeated, “There’s nothing wrong with me! Or Akaashi. We’re perfectly normal.”

“Normal!” He laughs, “You’re weird people. No boys ask other boys to marry them. That’s disgusting.”

“No, it’s not.” Bokuto shakes his head and then adds, “You’re only jealous because there’s somebody who likes me enough to want to marry me. And I’m Bokuto!”

That’s right. For Haru, being called _Bokuto_ is the worst possible insult. He is loud and somewhat stupid with his ridiculous pepper and salt hair and owl-like eyes. Why does he get to be liked by the pretty Akaashi?

These, he doesn’t say. Instead, he spats at his classmate, “Yuck. It’s your fault Akaashi is getting drag into this. You’re spreading your gay germs on him.”

He swivels and left, that’s the end of conversation. He doesn’t hear from Bokuto directly for weeks or ever again. Three weeks after their conversation, he heard that a first-year pushed Bokuto down the stairs. When asked, the first year would claim it’s _because_ _Bokuto is gay_ and _maybe, he deserves to be pushed down the stairs._

Akaashi and Bokuto disappear from their little town after that.

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“Are you going to leave me?” Akaashi’s voice is small and fearful. Bokuto grins at him, his head and his left leg wrapped in white bandages, “Of course not.”

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“Let’s get out of this town.”

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The conversation with their parents was not something they expect to be smooth. But it is. The discussion was more between their parents than it was between them and their parents.

They both sat quietly in the living room while the adults talk in the kitchen. They don’t mean to be loud but the topic is something they never quite dabbled on because, well, they never expected their children to be what Bokuto and Akaashi are— _whisperingly, like it’s a conspiracy, Bokuto’s dad mumbles, “…gay.”_

“Is it a phase?” Bokuto’s mom, Mirai, is as vivacious as her child is. She’s as accepting as every mother supposedly is for their children. Even so, she grew up with the norm and this is a new territory for her.

“I don’t think so.” Akaashi hears his mother speaks with her usual stern voice. He peeks at the entrance of the kitchen and holds Bokuto’s hand. “I’ve actually thought of the possibility that he might prefer boys. He lacks a general interest to girls. I was even suspicious with his relationship with Koutarou. They’re just too close more than boys their age are, aren’t they?”

“Kenji, anata,” Akaashi’s mom, Sakura, calls out to the silent older man. His gunmetal blue eyes glint under the glow of the kitchen light before he sighs, “I don’t care if my son is gay. I just want him to be happy. That child never seems to smile much until he’s with Koutarou-kun.”

“But isn’t it just too soon to assume that it’s not a phase? I mean they’re only children.” Bokuto’s dad argues, “They could change their mind. What then?”

“Then they changed their mind. That’s that.” Mrs. Sakura determines, “It’s for them to decide for themselves, right?”

Their voices grew quieter in hushed rapid throw of their stand. It feels like they did something illegal and it’s not funny at all to think that if they’re just decades back, they really would be criminals or in asylum. Akaashi knows because he has done his research and made sure that Bokuto won’t get too hurt when they both come out of the closet.

“Do you think our feelings would change?” Akaashi distracts himself from the bitter history of their identity with the more bitter possibility. Bokuto is quiet for a minute. He hums after a long stretch of the silence and then says, “I would hate it if it does. Because I do think I’m in love with you. And I do think I would want to marry you.”

“But we’re only twelve and thirteen.” Akaashi finishes the sentence for Bokuto. Something about the way the words fall from his mouth with little grace made them both ache.

“Hey, do you still have the ring?” Akaashi closes his eyes and wonders if this is it. He never outrightly told Bokuto how deep his affections go, not in the way most people say it. He grips Bokuto’s hand one last time before getting his most treasured jewel, the one so preciously encased in the expensive wooden box his grandmother gifted long ago.

The moment he presents it to Bokuto, the moment Bokuto tries to take it back, he cowers and clings to the box.

“I don’t think kids like us really know what love is.” He is not a poet but there is a musing sprouting out of his chest, worded petals in the form of vibration flowing between the spaces they stood apart, “But I wanted you to know, even if this is just a phase or if we do change years from now, you’re my first choice. Always has.”

Bokuto blinks at him then tilts his head, “Then let’s just make sure this is not a phase. Or our feelings change. This,” he takes the box and opens it gingerly, and if his leg has completely healed, he would have kneeled on one knee, instead, he settles with stretching the box as much as possible towards Akaashi, “is the proof of it.”

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_“Fine. We’ll leave this town. It’s not like this is even a good one.”_

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Tokyo is a melting pot of different cultures. It has more breathing room for people like Bokuto and Akaashi, it seems. Although high school has not been the nicest place on Earth, it isn’t as immature as middle school with their hardened shell from scrapes kneecaps, popularity-pyramid scheme, and frivolous sentiments.

Perhaps, it is a much different kind of realm with their giggling fondness for good memories and hellish homework and growing teens with ideals worth fighting for. Perhaps, a little bit perverse, what with the raging hormones and pretending to be adults on their own given term.

Bokuto has never brought sexuality into their relationship. Their affair has been forehead kisses and soft make out sessions and lots of cuddles. That’s why he is quite troubled when he discovers he is, in fact, a wolfish man.

“So, like, when you told me that you’re gay, I searched for gay sex and they take it up their ass.” Konoha mutters like he is telling the weather for the day, “And I don’t think you ‘bottom’—that’s the term they use for the one taking it in, by the way. I think you ‘top’. But anyway, how’s it like? You know, to have sex with a man?”

Bokuto flushes, his mind immediately whirring images that should be reserved at nights, “I… we… we didn’t have sex!”

“Yet.” Konoha winks, looping an arm around the buffier teen’s shoulder, “It’s going to happen soon. With someone as pretty as Akaashi, if I’m into men, I’ll tap that too.”

“Hey! Akaashi is mine.” Bokuto snarls and Konoha rolls his eyes before leaning close to whisper, “I can help you buy condoms, you know. We can’t have you getting diseases, sheesh.”

“Konoha!”

“Pssh. You have the longest relationship around here and you’re still the most virgin little thing.” There’s a playful condescending tone lacing Konoha’s voice and Bokuto knows that Konoha was jesting but it doesn’t help his ego when the sandy blond added, “Coward.”

He storms off, Konoha’s chortling echoing in the mostly deserted hall.

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Gunmetal blues hid behind long raven lashes, pinkish lips swollen, neck littered with purple bruises. The sheets pooled around them like a nest, protective in its embrace. Bokuto groans at the touches, a new venture from the softness of their relationship.

He spills with a soft tug from nimble delicate fingers.

“ _Akaashi_.”

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“Fuck you, Konoha.”

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It doesn’t happen in high school. Even with the sudden consciousness of Bokuto to anything sexual when it comes to Akaashi. It doesn’t happen because Bokuto explodes from the sheer frustration of having Akaashi but not _having_ him. Of course not. He doesn’t throw their five-year relationship in the wind for the taste of the apple.

He has other let outs so he won’t explode. Volleyball saves him plenty of time.

Instead, it was at the cusp of summer. Akaashi is moving in with him, with the permission of his parents, and because they had long planned it, the apartment is the meeting point between Akaashi’s university and the MSBY training quarters.

The night was cool. The boxes have been unpacked. The added stuffs have been organized. It was ordinary, nothing special about it.

But it’s the way Akaashi smiles at him, gentle—the way he let his hands linger on his arms, burning, the way he leans in, just after showering, for an open-mouthed kiss. And it’s not the rush scorching passion that Bokuto imagines it to be.

It’s not a race to the bed. It’s not a quick descend of tumbles and losing shirts. It’s more of a whisper of _finally_ , more of warm kisses, more of a wanting feeling but not the kind that makes one impatient, the kind where you wanted to prolong the pleasing sensation of being loved.

Bokuto worships Akaashi’s body, a temple only he can touch, only he can openly and faithfully love.

“Akaashi…” Bokuto sighs, “Why are you so pretty?”

“Thank you.”

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It is a decade since graduating from elementary that they met Mr. Furihata again. His hair has long greyed, his face wrinkled with age, but there are traces of contentment in the way he carries himself.

They were eating in the café when Akaashi tilts his head just in time to catch the warm stare of the occupant the table after. His mouth forms a small ‘o’ when he finally recognizes his old English teacher.

“Furihata-sensei!”

Bokuto turns and stands up immediately from his seat, bowing deeply.

“Oh, what’s this?” His voice is deeper than what they remember, maybe because it seems quieter than the vibrant one he has before. Bokuto smiles, “It’s for everything.”

“Everything? I don’t recall anything special, Bokuto.” Except for the homework about love, he did not done much for Bokuto’s whole development. Bokuto shakes his head, “It’s a small thing. You might not remember. But I saw you once with Mr. Narumi and… it gave me courage to kiss Keiji too.”

“Oh.” There’s a solemn shadow that clings around the edges of his soothing russet eyes. “I’m glad. You know, I always remembered both of your answers. About love. Bokuto, do you still give your 120% to both volleyball and Akaashi?”

Bokuto smiles, “Of course. And you know, when it’s not enough, I’ll give 200% of me.”

Mr. Furihata chuckles, “Yes. Yes, that you do. And, Akaashi, is he still shining?”

Akaashi nods, a blush high on his cheeks, “He still makes me feel alive.”

“I’m glad.” Mr. Furihata says again and then adds, almost like an afterthought, “Take care of each other. You know how things last when you do.”

There’s a golden band around Mr. Furihata’s ring finger and Akaashi, curious and blunt, asks, “Are you happy with Mr. Narumi?”

“For twenty years, yes.” Mr. Furihata says with a tone one would use in fond reminiscence, “Wherever he is now, if it’s heaven or hell or somewhere reincarnated again, I hope he’s happy too.”

Oh.

Mr. Furihata stands from his seat and shakes Bokuto’s hand firmly, “Do your best, boy. 120%, yes?”

He left with a spring in his steps, cradling the golden ring on his finger. For a moment, you could imagine Mr. Narumi’s tall silent figure next to him, green eyes soft with affection that, as children, they thought were meant for the closest of friends.

“Kou.” Akaashi calls out and Bokuto leans to kiss him on his cheeks, “Let’s go, babe.”

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When Bokuto turns twenty-four, they won the MSBY vs. Adlers match—a feat since they barely did so. It’s highly thanks to everyone, but especially so to their new wing spiker, slightly taller than he remembered him to be.

Hinata has run to the opposite side after, jumping in the arms of Kageyama. They spun around like lunatics high on drugs but there is a beautiful sort of smile across the Adlers’ setter, one that Bokuto never saw him with. But there he is, arms wrapped around Hinata, with the biggest grin on his face as if they did not lose at all.

Bokuto, feeling envious, turns to the stands and sees Akaashi clapping for him, chest puffed out with pride, his own lips upturned into his rainbow curve. Bokuto beams at him and before anyone could really comprehend, he shouts, “Let’s go to Kamnada!”

Akaashi laughs in the way he always does for Bokuto’s blunder, kind and loving.

“It’s Canada, Kou.”

He hears Atsumu’s _Omi-Omi, Bokkun’s being weird again_. But he doesn’t let him be fazed. There’s a secret language, it seems, that Akaashi and him develop through the years. Cryptic messages only they could decipher.

So, when tears pour down his eyes, it’s only Akaashi who understood.

“Akaashi,” He wails, falling down on one knee, “Why are you so pretty?”

Akaashi leans on the rail and says with a small smile, “Thank you.”

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See? It aged swimmingly.

-Fin-

**Author's Note:**

> Also, I wrote half of the next chapter for 'you are the best thing that's ever been mine' but I scrap it. Shit happens in real life and my writing was affected. So well, I made another one fic. I'm sorry about that. hahahaha. Anyway, review? I appreciate it.


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